Musical Pastures
by RockinJanelle
Summary: John always loved when Sherlock played the violin. The melancholy tunes were the sweetest of them all. And Sherlock never turned down a request. Johnlock. PG-13


**Title: **"Musical Pastures"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Sherlock/John__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_~2,500_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong><br>A/N: Couple things:**

**1) I'm sorry.**

**2) I've had this idea since August, and I've finally had the proper time to write it. I never knew what piece would perfectly fit, but, man, I found it.**

**3) If you listen to Faure's "Elegy" while reading this, it helps you understand how _emotional_ this whole thing is. Just saying.**

**Enjoy! ...the best you can.**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

Music is what brought together the souls and hearts of those that mattered. For two men in one flat, it brought them together through the good and bad, the lovely and the dreadful. One had known the other played violin, but that other did not know the one was so articulate when it came to the composers of pieces he played. But the other would play for the one, no matter the cost.

It did not matter the time of day or what had been going on during that time. If John asked Sherlock to play the violin, he would place the violin underneath his chin and play whatever piece would come to mind. Nothing would disturb the two in 221B Baker Street. No mortal or ghostly thing would come between the music the two would share. Only the two in their own world would dive into the heart of Holst, Bach, Beethoven, Debussy, and more. If someone ever came across the two, the music would not be played; it would simply end on the last note of the measure they interrupted.

Usually, John would ask for something melancholy, something to stir the strings of the heart, and Sherlock would never let him down. Sherlock would put everything he could into the piece of music, everything he ever dreamed of putting into a sheet of music that held no value for some musicians. And John would always be pleased. The ending would be the same: John would sit across from Sherlock, eyes closed, smiling, whispering a 'thank you' underneath his breath.

During runs in the night, John would remark how he wished Sherlock would have a travelling violin with him wherever they went. Sherlock would reply how ridiculous the notion was, but understood the meaning behind the words. John would be silenced with fear, and music was his remedy. So Sherlock would hum something, anything, just tiny bits of music that would enter his ears. And John would hum along, carrying on with the investigation like nothing was out of the ordinary.

It did not matter the situation. Even with John on the ground, gasping for something, anything, he would call to Sherlock to hum something beautiful. "Beethoven," he whispered. Sherlock's musical library scanned for the perfect piece, coming across "Ode to Joy", the sixth symphony, everything he could hum he would. John stopped struggling with the problems in the world and listened to the vibrations from Sherlock's deep voice echo through the air. He would not say thank you, he could not. He was fast asleep before he could say anything.

Sherlock never refused a request. Not even at the early hours of the morning. The cries were getting worse and worse during the night, John calling out for something to ease the pain, to ease the troubles. But there was nothing more they could give him. They were doing all they could, and nothing was working. Sherlock sat by the bedside, calling out to John to ask him what he wanted. "Sherlock," John whispered. Sherlock would sit in the chair, waiting on his words, wanting to catch them when they fell. "Sherlock," he repeated.

"John," replied Sherlock. John turned his head toward him, reaching out for something to hold onto. Sherlock would hold out his hand, feeling the clammy fingers grasp his bony ones. The grip was strong, so strong that Sherlock believed he would break the bones. But he would show no signs of pain.

"Please, play something," Sherlock looked up at the others around, knowing full well that their world would be jeopardized. But Sherlock could never let him down. Even at the time of the request, he could not. Sherlock put the joined hands on his throat and closed his eyes. What would he play? Vivaldi? He was John's favorite composer. "Anything, Sherlock…" John's grip started to fade. Sherlock scanned his library, choosing the right piece of music to play. Which one, though? "I don't…"

Sherlock decided. He started to hum the first notes of Vivaldi's "Summer", a classic for John. The notes would seamlessly fall through the air, hanging by different threads of time. Suddenly, John stopped complaining, leaning into the music being played by Sherlock, the music that vibrated through the two bodies conjoined. Sherlock would not pay attention to the others around, those that entered their world uninvited. He would just play the piece for his partner crying for help.

Every crescendo, every note, harmony, trill, everything would be put into the air. Sherlock would never open his eyes, he would never hear what had been happening outside of him and John. The two in the world would listen to Vivaldi move through time and space, opening the void between reality and fiction to some that believed it. John did. And he would not stop, for John begged for it. He would not realize the grip on his hand would cease, the pains would come to a close. He would not hear the cries whisper softly through the chaos at the small gesture Sherlock played. All he could do was play the rhythms and harmonies that Vivaldi offered both men.

And when the final note growled through his throat, Sherlock decided to open his eyes. He let it hang as long as he could before he could not breathe anymore. When the music stopped, so did the accompaniment.

**x x x **

It was a gorgeous day. Some would call it the perfect day for music that could cheer them up, that would make them smile. But for two men, they cared about the melancholies of the music that tore at someone's heart. The beauties of the world surround the two would look stunning with Faure to open the clouds to Heaven. John lied next to Sherlock, with Sherlock sitting in a white chair. He asked Sherlock to join him under the bright sun of the day, asking him to bring the violin with him. Sherlock could not refuse. And away they went to a place that sung in the harmonies of nature.

Sherlock rose from the chair and swung his body around to look down at John. He had not pictured a sight like this, but John asked him politely. "Play for me," he said to him. Sherlock had not taken the rest of the words, for he was trying to ignore them. But then he heard: "Please?" And Sherlock always obliged. He rested the violin on his shoulder and leaned into the cold wood that was left untouched for some odd days. John did not ask him to play the music those days; he was to be left alone.

The wind picked up a calm breeze as he rested the bow on the strings. John asked, "Sherlock, please choose something grand, fantastic, and beautiful. I want to hear the notes be true to the sounds you emit from your violin. Can you do that for me?" Sherlock had a tough time finding a piece, but soon after he was asked, he had the piece. The wind died off, and the first note sung. He was beginning Faure's "Elegy".

John only heard the piece once when Sherlock was practicing the rhythms and notes throughout the piece. He told Sherlock it was one of the most beautiful harmonies he had ever heard in his life. "Don't stop," he whispered. And Sherlock obliged. He would not know what John had been doing with his eyes closed, as he practiced the notes, but he felt John's hands wrap around his cheeks as he continued to practice, as he continued to dream of a scene with the music in the background. The movements that passed through time would connect the two again, harmonizing with the shattering notes and rhythms their tongues created.

Sherlock never opened his eyes on the beautiful day. He wanted to imagine John again, thinking that he was there, swaying to the crescendos and sixteenth notes colliding with the air around. He wanted John to remember the time it was first played, how it was first heard by his ears. Now, though, it was perfected, and it was almost as it Sherlock could feel it falling on deaf ears. It had been flawed, both of them falling in love only to the imperfections of life, just like the two of them.

Sherlock, though, was caught up with the piece. He never let his emotions get too fragile during a piece, even if he gave his heart and soul for music. His breathing was starting to get heavier and heavier, tears forming in the eyes of the beholder. The chords would strike his heart as he continued with the music. But he would not falter; he would not fail John. He would finish the piece with everything intact. He would let John hear the piece come to a close.

The air was still; his music did not carry. But he did not stop. John asked for Faure, he asked for the melancholies of life. He asked for the beautiful solemnity that carried with the music, and Sherlock would deliver. "Let me feel alive," John said. "Let me feel the notes stab at my heart and don't stop." Sherlock heard John's words in his ears, but he could not stop sobbing, could not stop playing. His body would try to create the wind and let the notes enter John's ears once more, but the air would not comply. The beautiful day was too perfect.

Near the end of "Elegy", the notes came to a whisper. Sherlock did not want the piece to end, for he would have to open his eyes again. He would see John in a whole new light, and he was not ready for his judgment. The music slowed with the rest of his movements, gently trying to compose the signature Sherlock wanted to convey, but his emotions were too worked over. He could not hold himself together as the tears fell. He wanted to feel John's hands again, but John was too occupied listening to the music.

One chord, then another, then slowly coming to a halt: the final chord rested on his fingertips and he slowly slid the bow across the strings. The wind slightly blew, very gently, but the music carried through. John heard the music, he felt his emotions come alive once more, and Sherlock was pleased, no matter how many tears had fallen during the emotional ride. He lifted the bow off the strings and took the violin away from his chin. He was afraid to open his eyes, but he could discern reality from fiction.

And when he opened his eyes, he saw John still lying in the same position, back to the ground, head to the sky, quietly resting in front of Sherlock. An obstruction kept the image closed, keeping John tucked away from the world, away from the beautiful day before them. A hand from behind softly rested on the crook of his back as he silently cried for the sorrow in the air. The man next to him wore nothing but black robes, holding a black book full of lost words on deaf ears. Sherlock blended in with the black attire.

The man closed his eyes and held out his hands. Sherlock looked down at John. "May you always walk in sunshine," the priest began. Sherlock tirelessly blinked the tears away, but more would come. "and God's love around you flow, for the happiness you gave us, no one will ever know."

Sherlock slowly walked up to John as he continued to hear the words from the priest. "It broke our hearts to lose you, but you did not go alone—a part of us went with you, the day God called you home." Sherlock stopped in front of John, casually looking down at the resting spot. He let his violin crash to the ground and heard his bow gently rest in the grass below his feet. The dirt that rested in a soft mound was not disturbed. "A million times we've needed you-" 

_"John, I miss you."_

"A million times we've cried-" Sherlock closed his eyes and let his hands calmly rest against the hard pine that Sherlock chose for John. It may not have suited him, but Sherlock acknowledged that John would not have cared. "If love could only have saved you, you never would have died." Sherlock hated prayers. They were never true. Love could not have saved his John; medicine and blood transfusions would have, as well as being in a different place at a different time. Sherlock would've given all the love he could release if that were the case, but it was not the truth. If Moriarty had not shot him—

"The Lord be with you, and may you rest in peace." Sherlock leaned against the coffin ahead of him and sighed.

"Amen," he whispered with the priest, hearing the book shut on its own. Sherlock opened his eyes and found the white wood glaring into his eyes, the sun's reflection burning into his retinas. He did not care. Placing his lips against the wood, he squeezed his eyes shut and let more tears fall. He never whispered his love for John, but if it was the last time he could see John in such a manner, he would pour it all into one kiss on the coffin. "_Play for me, when I'm dead. I want you to play your violin for me at my funeral. Please?" _Sherlock would not attend the official funeral; those related to John hated him, blamed him for their doctor's death. Sherlock couldn't agree more.

He rose as soon as he felt the hand reach out again and touch his back. He looked to the priest—the smiling priest, which he never understood with religious men—and frowned. "Beautiful music you have played for him, Mr. Holmes," the priest acknowledged. Sherlock nodded. John would have said the same thing. "I am sorry for your loss," the hand rubbed his back, but Sherlock did not care. This man did not know John like he had come to know and love—he was nothing more than a pitiful man.

Sherlock turned away from the coffin, feeling his hands slide off the coffin's smooth texture. The grass beneath swished as his feet moved farther and farther away from the marker. Sherlock would hear the priest cry out to him about the violin left, but Sherlock knew John would appreciate it more in the afterlife, wanting to play his Beethoven, Vivaldi, and Bach with those in Heaven. Even the angels needed to hear the beautiful sounds of life created between two men in their lifetimes.

The wind whistled a low note. John was playing for Sherlock now, making sure he would be okay in reality instead of fiction. The wind changed pitch, gathering the harmonies of life and death that collided that day. The sun had faded behind the clouds as he walked away, watching those that cared about John enter the graveyard. But they would not hear the fantastic music he created, not one note. And Sherlock began to hum Beethoven's fifth symphony as its harmony. The wind carried with him, through and through.

_"Beautiful."_


End file.
